


Red, With A Hint Of Orange

by jenatwork



Category: Surrealissimo: The Scandalous Success of Salvador Dali (2002)
Genre: M/M, moving my older work to AO3 from livejournal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-28
Updated: 2016-01-28
Packaged: 2018-05-16 21:18:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 15,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5841325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenatwork/pseuds/jenatwork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Words are corrupt, but images are indefinable. Rosey and Bauer combine both to translate their impression of beautiful things.</p><p>A/N - I am in the process of moving some very old work (10 years old at least) from my Livejournal account to my AO3 account. This is one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The premise of the story rests upon the notion of Bauer reading Louis Aragon’s poem, ‘The Embrace’ and seeking out the Picasso painting upon which it was based. I have taken great liberties with historical facts. I have pilfered (with some small amount of shame) the words of Louis Aragon, Oscar Wilde and no doubt others, and the wonderful literary style of Kath Koja. I have taken six minutes of someone else’s film to create a complete work of fiction about one person who really existed and one who may not have existed at all. I have thought about surrealism so much that even my language has lost all sense of structure.

Wood polish and cigarette smoke, hint of musty rottenness. The smell of galleries always oppressive, the sound of embarrassed footsteps hideously obtrusive. Bauer felt there should be more noise, celebration of beauty and innovation and lurid attempts at catching truth.

Through rooms and rooms, quaint and tired portraits first so as not to scare away the money, the aged patrons and buyers, slowly but certain as time giving way to the newer works, cubists taking over like insects. Infestation.

The one he wanted tucked away discreetly, so neatly he walked past it once. Backtracked, double-checked the title, blue ink on crisp ivory white. Checked the artist, year, title again.

His throat tightening, sudden irrational disappointment ridiculous in the face of such obvious skill, far more than anything his own hands had produced and yet. Not enough. Not what he’d hoped for.

The expectation of being drawn to it, his heart once beating, moth’s wings, now unable even to match Aragon’s own childish trembling – now the sudden fear that he was not enough, Bauer the disappointment, unable to appreciate this thing that had moved the French writer to produce such beauty of his own.

Such an ordinary thing, soft low curve of the woman’s belly somehow denying the frisson of Aragon’s words, negative charge cancelling out the excitement he had felt on first reading, that delicious fear that made him grip the paper, white-knuckle embrace of his own as the words somehow caressed, stroked, a deep arousal hitherto unknown.

Stepping forward, searching for detail, perhaps he’d missed something, then back, bigger picture, desperate, pleading with the painting to share the secret it had given up like a lover to Aragon.

“Wo ist es?” Unintentional whisper, too loud in the accusing silence. Guilty, he looked around, hoping to find himself alone. Then frozen in the curious gaze of the man in the doorway. Casual, hands in trouser pockets, almost ignorant of the presence of Art, how long had he watched Bauer?

Ignoring his embarrassment, eyes fixed now on the painting, moving to stand by Bauer, “Wo ist was?” Said with a smile, clearly not German, the man’s eyes searching the painting with eyes that suggested they already knew.

Bauer, struggling for explanation, for the words en français, “I read…Aragon.”

Finally turning to Bauer, one eyebrow arched in surprise. A moment’s pause, then reciting, “Nothing but them alone, never weary of their embrace, trembling in each other’s arms and legs”. Bauer’s own eyes widening, the familiar words still making him ache inside.

“You know it?”

“I know him.”

Unsure, had he made a mistake? But no, his French was not so poor. “Aragon?”

“Yes.”

How to respond to that? Any question he could think of seemed mundane, Aragon a creator of beauty beyond any ideas Bauer might have. Back to the painting, recalling the words again, as if now he might find its meaning having found some connection to Aragon.

“I had expected more.” Spoken without thinking, he hated that habit but his own art had brought it about, his tendency to shape in the air the thoughts in his head.

“So of course you were disappointed.” The man’s smile startlingly tender when his words condemned. “’Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril.’ Aragon’s words are his own. They are useless to anyone else.”

“Then why write them?” Again without thinking, but conversation suddenly seemed so easy, the words forming in French without him having to work at it. “Why tell the world about the painting?”

“But he isn’t telling us about the painting. He only tells us about Louis Aragon. That is all anyone can do. Words tell you more about the speaker than the subject.”

“Which is why I don’t like words.” A startled smile on the man’s face, and Bauer strangely pleased that he could shock too. Reckless, continuing before the words had time to escape him, “They are corrupt. They take away pure meaning and replace it with poor reflections of truth.”

“And art is pure?” Not a hint of mocking or smugness in the man’s voice, a genuine question. 

“It is pure in that it is never definite. I paint what I mean, and he who views my work sees what he understands. A writer takes words and uses them to make the world ‘just so’. It must be ‘this way’ only, the words leave no room for disagreement.”

“And Aragon’s words?” 

Bauer’s face reddening, turning back to the painting to escape the intrusive gaze.

“I thought they had found something.” Eyes on the couple locked in their passionless embrace, wondering who had told the bigger lie, Picasso or the writer.

“For Aragon, maybe. And perhaps you found something in them. Just not what you had expected.”

In Bauer’s head, a half-formed painting, sallow yellows and watery blues, his own disappointment fixed upon a canvas. How much easier to give that to this stranger than find words – and the idea so absurd that he laughed at himself, the stranger raising both eyebrows this time, a laugh of his own to match.

Bauer turning back to the gallery. Resolved to paint something, anything, as soon as he returned to his room, before the regret could crush him and send him spiralling into inactivity. Art was eternal, but then again so were rent demands.

“So, Herr Artist,” emphasis on the ‘h’ sound so that Bauer felt the warm breath against his hair, “do you have a studio nearby?”

 

*****

 

Upstairs, floorboards groaning complaints and too much dust, and it was only a studio because it was too shabby to be an apartment. Mattress and blanket pushed into one corner like an afterthought, table and chair against the same wall, shirts and trousers on hooks and nails but to the man, Rosey, seemingly irrelevant. An easel by the window, more canvases leaning against the walls, the real focus, and Bauer more nervous about them than the emptiness of the living space.

Rosey taking his time with each painting, sometimes smiling in surprise, sometimes cocking his head as though he’d missed something. Rosey the writer, he’d discovered, so precise with his words in conversation, so the sudden quiet worried Bauer. He hesitated, held between the doorway and where Rosey stood, too polite to put hands in pockets, too anxious to clasp them behind his back, he worried at a loose thread on the cuff of his jacket.

“Your use of colour.” A finished statement, Rosey had no comment on what exactly he had done with colour. Just a look at Bauer, approval and curiosity and Bauer felt the spark of something, an idea before words, a feeling that he had to hold on to it.

“Colour makes sense to me,” he explained, realising that it wasn’t the translation from German to French that made it sound so odd, but the very idea itself might be absurd to someone who worked with words, who could only paint in the colour of ink. “Sometimes I want to speak in colours. Open my mouth and it’s yellow so everyone knows I’m disappointed.”

“Yellow?”

Searching again for the words but couldn’t find them, not even in his own tongue. Moving then to retrieve his paintbrush and oils, feeling he could spare just a little to illustrate to Rosey, suddenly the idea of communicating his meaning more important than anything else and yellow on the palette, a touch of white, smear of brown mixed together, mindful of his jacket sleeves. Yellow daubed on a scrap of paper, sour and jaundiced. “Disappointed,” he explained, understanding on Rosey’s face that made Bauer smile, guarded but reassured.

Then Rosey turning quickly back to the canvases, selecting a street scene in vibrant greens and the buildings orange-greys, occasional hint of cautious red and too-blue sky.

“This?”

“My first week in Paris.” Remembering the excitement, the bewilderment at finally reaching the city, the serendipity of finding lodgings almost immediately, warm bread smell in the mornings and sing-song voices through the window.

Another street, rendered in slate-grey and flat brown, a figure in the foreground in blue. Rosey held it at arms’ length.

“You didn’t know her.”

“She spoke no French, or German.”

“A mystery!”

A landscape in muted greens, the sky grey.

“Your home.”

“You’ve seen Germany?”

”You miss it. It’s obvious.” Said without looking at Bauer. Rosey’s right hand over the canvas, as if pointing to Bauer’s feelings. 

“And you can tell from the colours.” It wasn’t meant to sound smug; Rosey’s expression hinted that it did. Replacing the canvas, moving towards Bauer to study the colours on the palette. 

“Fear.” Pointing to the paints, an instruction. Bauer with a fresh brush, mixing hollow grey. “Loss.” The sour yellow mixed with more brown, a hint of black. “Anticipation.” Red, a touch of orange, Bauer saw fire flickering and hid a smile. “Lust.” Purple, rich and full – in his head he saw a velvet sheen and wished he could paint that but there wasn’t enough time. Later, when he was alone, he would paint with that colour, capture that decadent softness.

Rosey standing by the window, looking down to the street. He set the palette on the floor, wanted to stand next to him but couldn’t move.

“You’ll meet him tomorrow,” Rosey still with his back to Bauer, one hand resting on the window frame. “Aragon.”

Alone, some minutes later, and Bauer stripping off jacket and shirt, fresh canvas on the easel and mixing purples and reds. The image small, private, too precious to spill over on to the bigger blank canvas by the window, rumpled bed sheets in an empty room, the embrace itself over but Bauer could feel the warmth still lingering on the sheets he painted, the lip upon lip and the linked breathing he would not share for fear of losing the secret to strangers and there, inside, that warm ache that had come first from reading Aragon’s words, finally fixed upon canvas.

In the dying light he washed brushes, heedless of the emptiness of his stomach, exhausted from the effort of his own procreation, and lay down on the mattress. He dreamed in red, with a touch of orange.


	2. Palest Yellow

Orange light through the window, too early but Bauer was up and dressed, gritty eyes and desperately hungry. Precious few coins spent on bread and cheese for a hurried breakfast before he dared himself to look at last night’s work.

Purple so obscene he blushed – where had that come from? Bauer’s own hand reached out to touch the canvas, velvet softness seeming too real, too lavish to sully with his paint-stained fingers. His own skin warm as if he himself had wrinkled the sheets in the painting; did that make him a narcissist? He felt far too aware of his own heartbeat.

Ashamed gaze turning towards the window, remembering Rosey in the late afternoon light, skin burnished gold and the promise of meeting Louis Aragon. Perhaps said in jest, maybe even an outright lie and Bauer did not dare get his hopes up – spent the day like any other. Work to be done on a landscape, his first commissioned piece after showing two small paintings in a gallery outside the city centre. An urge today to brighten the colours, extra care to blend and mute, match today’s work with the previous colouring but still a feeling of vibrancy, movement that was missing from the rest of the painting until he almost wanted to cast the canvas aside and start again, hoping that the buyer did not share his sensitivity to colour. Another day or two and it would be complete, he could collect his fee and secure his rent for another month or two, stock up on supplies and maybe even buy a new coat – autumn not far off and his jacket too flimsy to see him through the winter.

Playing at surprise when Rosey knocked on the door early in the afternoon, welcoming him into the room as he wiped paint from his hand with a rag, sorry, no drink in the apartment to offer and Rosey’s friendly offer of lunch. Clean shirt as Rosey watched the street from his window, jacket and tie and still he felt shabby. Rosey’s suit a risk in a room full of paints and rags and dust, he had to be ushered out of the room quickly lest Bauer spoil that expensive-looking fabric.

But still Rosey lingering by the window, eyes on the small collection of unsold paintings and Bauer thought of the purple, now hidden behind the others and still his face reddened. Its presence in the room like a corpse waiting to prove him guilty. Rosey on his knees, selecting the street scene he’d held up yesterday, Bauer’s first week in the city and his naive excitement all over the canvas, he felt like a child, and another, portrait entirely in reds, painted from memory – a girl he had known briefly in Germany and the feeling of the reds more important than the accurate rendering of her face.

“These two,” and Rosey wrapping the paintings to take with him, a meeting of minds, he explained. People who would be interested in his work. No mention of Aragon and Bauer did not dare ask, too conscious of his inexperience. Gauche, en français and still it sounded ugly, conscious of his hair grown too long and his jacket, loose threads giving him away. 

Short walk to a café he had eaten in just once, his first week and money not much of an issue – Rosey with the wrapped paintings under one arm, claiming them and Bauer aware that he was to be shown off as much as his work. A long table upstairs and four men, loud conversation but not the raucous laughter of drunks. All eyes on Rosey, he must be someone important, and the man in the middle of his group rising to greet them.

“André Breton,” Rosey introduced them, no handshake or even polite nod of the head from Breton, just an appraising look and a deep draw on his pipe before turning back to Rosey. 

“His work.” A demand more than an acknowledgement of the bundle Rosey carried. Bauer, arms clasped behind his back, hoping for a show of confidence and turning to Rosey for reassurance but Rosey suddenly tense and he was being tested as much as Bauer. Breton assessing Rosey’s ability to spot talent and Rosey’s hands actually shaking as he unwrapped the canvases. The four men judging wordlessly, no hint of reaction. Bauer making the effort to keep breathing, André Breton actually holding one of his paintings, for long enough that Bauer could feel the space between each heartbeat.

“The colours.” Strange accent and this must be Magritte, the Belgian. Bauer heard his own breath above the café noise – faint brush of Rosey’s shoulder against his own and the spaces suddenly shorter. 

“Indeed,” Breton, and finally eyebrows raised like he’d just found something. “Something about the red.” Rosey turning to him and Bauer knew he remembered, knew he felt the red right then.

“He speaks in colours,” Rosey explained and the others nodding, no explanation needed.

Lunch was paid for with Bauer’s attention, long justifications for la Révolution Surréaliste and Bauer sitting next to Louis Aragon, the writer talking about revolution in hurried words that seemed so distant from the stillness of his poetry, Bauer getting lost, couldn’t keep up at times with the flurry of language. Breton officiating, correcting, and next to him Yoyotte agreeing and scribbling in his notebook. Alcohol and good food and his tongue loosening, leaning back a little in his chair to talk about colours – Rosey next to him making links between Bauer’s ideas and painters Bauer had heard of and writers he had not, telling Breton that he remembered the colours of his dreams more than anything else. Rosey’s look of surprise, and Bauer suddenly guilty, he should have told Rosey first and that shocked him, long draft of his drink to hide the blush. Green drinks, and how fitting, green like his excitement, his youth, an asset to Breton who talked of new blood and new thought.

Aragon a confusion, surly with his drink and long stretches of silence as Magritte and Breton told him about dreams, about Freud, about automatism and Bauer’s blood seemed to fizz – drink or dialogue, perhaps both but the red in his mind turning fully to orange, golden dawn of something wonderful and still shapeless just beyond his reach – the bottom of his glass a disappointment and Rosey’s offer to see him home. Breton’s instruction to dream something tonight and tell him the colours and Yoyotte wrote it down so he had to be true to his word, promised Breton that he was half asleep already and Rosey laughed and bundled him out of the café.

Outside and already it was dusk, liquorice taste in his mouth that, he told Rosey, was like the palest yellow. Rosey asked if it was disappointing – not at all, he insisted, palest yellow was a promise and a risk and Rosey said that was worth writing down and if Bauer didn’t then he certainly would. Or perhaps he would paint it; if Bauer could craft with words then maybe a writer could turn his hands to art and Bauer could see the painting in his mind, careful colours because Rosey the writer would want things just so, but the composition would be exquisite. 

Up the creaking stairs and Rosey moved the landscape off the easel, replacing it with the last empty canvas, the biggest one that Bauer had been saving – he would have to sell something else soon besides the landscape. Rosey’s hands on his shoulders, steering him towards the mattress, insisting that he sleep and dream as Breton had instructed, but Bauer returning to his paints, pulling out a yellow, a pale green and a red, pressing them into Rosey’s hands, “Don’t paint red, make orange. It’s not red yet,” and Rosey laughing, deciding that absinthe certainly agreed with Bauer. Last of the evening light and his vision was hazy – Rosey’s ivory jacket the colour of fresh bread now and Bauer realised he had not eaten for hours. He steered Rosey to the door, hand on Rosey’s arm and the promise that he would paint first thing in the morning, as long as Rosey did too, smiling and tired and hungry and Rosey, before he closed the door, soft voice, “Goodnight,” and then gone.

Last few moments of the sunset. The sky blue-grey and yellow on the horizon, and Bauer felt it as orange, daring and proud, and imagined the sunrise that would follow.


	3. Green, white, roots and leaves

Two days since the café and Bauer imagined the off-white walls of his room were slowly being gilded by the sun. His dream of mountains of billowing fabric, folds and wrinkled heaps hiding secrets, he searched all night to find what they were hiding – all that now fixed on the canvas. Delicate orange-rose hue like some exotic flower cultivated for a rich land-owner, he felt unworthy, and a sense of something growing, he’d painted the fabric folds extending out like roots at the bottom of the canvas. Further up, they made different shapes, suggestion of an eye, a hand, he looked at the finished picture now and felt again that he was searching, looking, hands reaching out into – not a void, there were colours there, but colours he had no word for, colours which meant nothing to the eye.

How strange it had felt at first to paint with no tangible frame of reference, to make one still image from the roiling, shifting pictures in his head. But then how liberating to see in the physical world what had existed until that moment only behind his own eyes. For once he cared not whether the painting would sell – his prime concern was for it to be seen, to be able, at last, to actually speak in colours.

Rosey’s phrasing, and Rosey would be the first to see it, he still felt the guilt of talking about his dreams with Breton first and Rosey’s surprised eyes, had Bauer actually felt pain then?

The landscape hurriedly finished, ready to be delivered but he dared not leave the room, two days since Rosey had brought him home from the café, since Bauer had pressed paints into his hand with instructions to create something – yellow and orange and Rosey’s painting imagined so he almost didn’t dare want to see it for real.

But restless now, Bauer couldn’t sit still and no more canvas to work on until he collected his fee for the landscape, so he dressed – best shirt and jacket, then taking the jacket off to add a waistcoat too, chill breeze outside and impressing his buyer could lead to another commission.

Long walk to the outskirts of the city and his shirt sweat-damp, the wrapped painting cumbersome under his arm and he hesitated on the doorstep of the house to catch his breath. A minute or two before the bell was answered; he was ushered in quickly, escorted through to a dark-wood panelled drawing room. The buyer entertaining guests already, Bauer had arrived at an opportune time, he said. His landscape quickly unwrapped, breathless moment of silence and he ought to be more professional but opinions still mattered. Then congratulations, and his shoulders sagged with relief, broad smile that he couldn’t hide and the buyer’s guests eager to talk with him, where could they see his work? 

He left smiling, the fee in an envelope in his pocket and promises to attend his gallery showing, he’d have to be there if he wanted to pick up any more commissions. 

He enjoyed the walk back; took his time, let the conversations of passersby drift past without trying to translate them, wandered a longer route, enjoyed the weak September sun on his face. Almost two hours before he reached his lodgings – Rosey waiting outside, leaning against the wall, trying to look casual but anxious, Bauer could tell, like the blend where red met green, something big about to happen.

Inside and still nothing to offer Rosey. With the money in his pocket he could do something about that, and strange that he was anticipating more visits from Rosey already. The writer clutching a roll of paper, trying several times to speak and managing only half-sentences, aborted words and Bauer knew this wasn’t normal for Rosey. An urge to push him down into the one chair, to make him still because Rosey uncomfortable made Bauer agitated too. In the end Rosey thrust the roll of paper at him and Bauer imagined again how Rosey would have mixed the colours. He looked at Rosey as he unrolled the paper, Rosey who could not meet his eyes, who drew deep careful breaths, and Bauer remembered his first sketchbook, harsh lines until he discovered how to draw shadows instead of edges – he’d had instruction, a mentor and the recklessness of youth. But for Rosey, the cautiousness of adulthood and the company of lés Surrèalistes, how big of a risk was this for him to take? A sudden urge to take Rosey’s hand, assurance and solidarity, but he restrained himself, held on to the paper and looked at last.

It should have felt like déjà vu, like something strange, to see the image of wrinkled bed sheets on Rosey’s sketchbook page, the precise choice of colours, the inexpert blending and the hint of pencil lines, suggestion of folds and pleats and all as he had seen behind his own eyes. He would have to work with Rosey on shading and blending, perhaps on perspective.

And there it was – the folds of fabric he had dreamed, had painted, were pulled aside and there, the thing he had sought, had felt at the edge of his mind.

“I can’t - ” Rosey’s eyes downcast, hands clenched to fists.

“Explain it?” Bauer’s hand on his elbow then, unable to hold back any longer and Rosey’s nod of acknowledgement.

“It shouldn’t need explaining, I know – surrealists do not seek to add conscious meaning. I just need - ” His right hand grasping at the air as though to pluck the words from it; Bauer understood.

“You expect to pin it down with words,” he suggested. Rosey frowned but did not disagree. “I meant no disrespect. It’s just this gulf between – “

“Between communicating with words and with images?” And Rosey understood it too, felt that there must be somewhere in the middle where they could find common ground. “I think, Herr Artist, that you have stolen my words.” A smile at last, and Bauer returned it.

“A fair price, considering you have pilfered the images from my head.”

With Rosey’s painting in one hand, he crossed the room to retrieve his own work from the previous day, placing it with some difficulty on the easel for Rosey to see. Pleased with himself for capturing the softness of worn fabric, the questing movement of roots; Rosey’s sharp gasp of surprise and “Yes,” understanding, recognition of something shared. Rosey taking back his own painting to hold it next to Bauer’s. The colours were different, Bauer’s were bolder, more assured, they lacked the precision of Rosey’s choices but his painting the better for it. More said in the recklessness of automatism – Rosey’s meticulousness seemed to hide something that Bauer was determined to bring to the forefront soon.

Later, Bauer paid for a meal in the café they had visited previously. He told Rosey about the landscape he had sold; Rosey suggested he stay away, that Breton knew of galleries much more amenable to their ideas and that if Bauer carried on painting landscapes he “would suffocate, it would steal the life from your palette and you would die.” Bauer laughed at the drama of it all but Rosey had already convinced him, as far as he was concerned there was no risk in following Rosey and Breton. Rosey had painted for him with palest yellow and so Rosey had made a promise.

Breton would want to see the newest piece, Rosey said. They would meet the following day; Rosey and Bauer parted outside the café, Rosey’s hand on Bauer’s elbow as they said their goodbyes.

That night he dreamt of roots, white and green, young, and a tree with four limbs, paintbrushes gripped in its branches, painting its own leaves. He resolved that the image would be the last thing he painted by himself.


	4. Words written in indigo

Rosey had two rooms – the one he didn’t sleep in would be their studio. One easel by the window, the light wasn’t what he would have wanted but Rosey said that was better, it kept them closer to the realm of dreams and Bauer understanding more Rosey’s way with words. Things that he felt but could not communicate, Rosey could find them and make them real with more immediacy than he could by painting.

They started with colours. Bauer would mix paints to make a colour test, inviting Rosey to paint the feeling with his words; orange was vibrant, aggressive and daring, the colour of wheat was refined, blue the colour of the sea in winter made Rosey feel weak, grey left him silent for minutes before he spoke to Bauer of the death of a close friend. Then Rosey would prepare the colours and Bauer would study them, sometimes finding the words immediately, sometimes staring at one patch of paint for an hour before he could say what it was Rosey had felt.

Rosey would describe his dreams, sketching his compositions on paper like a map, mixing colours for Bauer to paint with – Bauer sometimes explaining technique or making comparison with another artist but most often just letting Rosey watch in silence. Rosey with his sketchbook, practising, days spent outside watching Rosey drawing trees, birds, the veins of autumn leaves and surprising Bauer when he could capture their crispness, their small decay in his work. And when Bauer felt able, when they had spent an afternoon in the café and someone else had paid for the drinks, allowing Rosey to draw Bauer’s hand, his hair, the drape of his shirt.

They paid for paints and canvas with the sale of Bauer’s last picture, the tree painting itself, bought by an acquaintance of Breton’s. His previous work, the orange-rose fabric, now hanging in Breton’s study, and Bauer somehow more proud of that. 

A month, six weeks, and their first finished piece – Rosey had made the colours, still careful with green and hesitant to work with blue, but Bauer had watched him work on one small section of the painting, a questing hand reaching out from stone to grasp at a feather dropped from a bird in the middle distance, Rosey’s dreams now always about life, growth, eggs and branches and the texture of fur, when Rosey described them Bauer could say, “Yes, me too,” recognising the feelings, knowing the colours Rosey would mix. The compositions he sketched seemed to Bauer like portraits of people he had met years ago. His signature in brown, bottom right, and he handed the brush to Rosey, “But surely it’s finished” and Rosey’s confusion until Bauer pressed the brush into his hand, held on, guiding the brush to form the first downward stroke of the ‘R’, loosened his grip but did not let go until Rosey had signed his name.

They kept their eyes on the painting; looking at Rosey then would be too dangerous so he followed the lines Rosey had painted, tracing the familiar curves. The hand in the stones copied from Rosey’s own sketch, it looked like Bauer’s right hand but Bauer knew it was Rosey’s, taking hold of something new, Rosey wanted them to fly but knew they weren’t ready yet. Still grounded, but looking at the sky.

And the strangest feeling that no one else ought to see the picture. Rosey’s dream and of course Bauer should know it, he shared his dreams with Rosey as a matter of course, but this was the world behind Rosey’s eyes and the thought of other people seeing it brought a flush of envy. His breath grew harsh, he still stood close enough to Rosey that his chest bumped Rosey’s arm as he inhaled and Rosey turned to him. Bauer’s eyes downcast but he could feel Rosey’s gaze, worried confusion making way for a tender sort of amusement, “Perhaps it’s not worthy of hanging.” A lie – Bauer’s work on the painting perhaps his best yet and blended seamlessly with Rosey’s developing style, but he looked up and knew that Rosey understood, that this was theirs alone. He wished he were braver, brave enough to share Rosey, after all it was Rosey’s dream he wanted to protect but that would come later, he knew.

*****

So many afternoons spent with the group and Bauer beginning to feel at ease in their company, able to keep up with Breton’s theories, share ideas of his own, Breton seemed fascinated by the work he and Rosey produced if somewhat wary of the way they worked. He groused about Rosey’s departure from writing; words were, after all, Breton’s world, and Bauer worried sometimes about losing his tenuous connection with Aragon, wondered if he could capture with his paintbrush the stillness and sensuality of Aragon’s writing. He thought of the purple, still hidden in his room, and decided he wasn’t bold enough yet for that. His dreams were of growth, evolution and things hiding at the edge of his vision, so that was what he would paint. 

Rosey still played with words. Breton’s word games were an amusement, even though, when they played, Rosey and Bauer’s sentences seemed to make too much sense for Breton’s liking and Yoyotte accused them once or twice of cheating but Rosey said what would be the point, the aim was to avoid making sense, wasn’t it? But Bauer felt sometimes like words were a chore, wondered sometimes about communicating without words entirely. Remembered telling Rosey about wanting to open his mouth and make colours – he actually suggested to Breton once that there could be grammar in the blending of colours, punctuation made from white spaces. Yoyotte said the punctuation should be black but Bauer said no and Rosey said that white was where everything ended and started and Bauer said that even black could speak. Two days later there were words in his dream, flowing indigo ink in Rosey’s handwriting and mountains of paper, the purest white, and he awoke to feel still, almost paralysed but not wanting to move, woollen silence and a surprised smile.


	5. Champagne-fizz, gold and pure

Their work hanging in galleries, Breton’s revolution drawing more attention and buyers actively seeking them out. Bauer read their names together in print for the first time, Rosey and Bauer, newspaper coverage of an exhibition which described les Surrèalistes as a danger to right-thinking society. Aragon’s ‘attack’ on Maurice Martin du Gard cited again in opposition of their group – Bauer and Rosey had smirked when Aragon told them in the café, he remembered Yoyotte’s appalled reaction and Breton’s silent contemplation, the barest hint of amused gratification in his eye as he drew deeply on his pipe.**

It was difficult to call them a group, Bauer felt – faces, names, came and went and came back again, Magritte and Ernst had been absent for some months, Ernst seeming to have outgrown his mentor Eluard. Eluard was Breton’s focus for a while, and Gala the object of Breton’s increasing consternation. 

But there were regular faces, those who would not or could not stray too far from Breton’s company and tutelage – Yoyotte always at his side, it seemed, Breton his lecturer and his furious note-taking, writing things that were rarely published but frequently discussed in the café. Aragon vocal in their discussions, reticent sometimes to join in their games but always present, solidarity so important to him. And Rosey and Bauer, still with their dreams of growth, painting roots that were by now strong and deep, dreams of echoes, of windows and mirrors, of leaves that danced on the wind.

Then the group out in public, visiting galleries and not looking at the paintings, taking separate tables in the same restaurant and shouting nonsense to no one. First signs of spring came early as if to encourage them, the group appearing in parks to mock the Parisian bourgeoisie, and Bauer grumbling about the couples walking arm-in-arm as if putting themselves on display – they were far too dull to paint, he announced – Rosey standing, offering Bauer his arm, “If you are so fascinating, Herr Artist, perhaps I should exhibit you and give these poor unfortunates a lesson in appreciating art.” And Rosey leading Bauer around the park, nods and greetings to strangers and Bauer playing up to the role, grinning broadly, hands clasped on Rosey’s arm, reckless but he was a Surrèaliste, no need for logic. A rare smile hard-won from Aragon, Yoyotte spluttering, his notebook all but forgotten, Bauer thought perhaps he ought to be worried by Breton’s silence but silence from Breton could mean anything so he elected not to query it.

That same evening, the last hour of daylight in Rosey’s studio to work on the composition of their newest piece and Bauer, champagne-fizz on the edge of his vision, “I shall dream something entirely new tonight, I am sure.” 

Rosey’s amused smile, “You have a new perspective on Art, now that you have been art yourself?” Side by side before the easel, their shoulders brushing. “Should I inform Breton that you intend another revolution?”

Bauer ignored the teasing, certain only of the knowledge that the dawn would herald something magnificent. His hand clasped Rosey’s elbow, memory of the walk in the park made it automatic and Rosey’s deep breath audible in the stillness that followed. “I know you see it,” and in the evening silence he felt the whiteness in the distance, something pure, wordless, felt Rosey tense in the face of it and held on, his other hand moving to soothe at Rosey’s arm and Rosey’s left hand convering it until he was still again, his breath slowing to match Bauer’s, two pairs of eyes on the empty canvas.

*****

Barely even dawn when he awoke, hint of grey sky on the horizon and Bauer reaching for his sketchbook, impossible to see more than a hint of white paper and the absurd pencil marks he made but he had to capture it or else it would never be real. He worked furiously as the light filled up the room, cursing the birdsong for interrupting, half-muttering to no one as he drew, wrote the names of the colours so that Rosey could mix them.

As soon as the sun appeared and one could be sure the day had really started, Bauer pulled on trousers and shirt, ignoring the chill and the need for a jacket. Sketchbook in hand, the ridiculous feeling that he was late as he arrived at Rosey’s apartment and no need to knock on the door, Rosey would have recognised his footfalls on the steps.

“How unreasonable of you to be so many streets away when I wish to speak to you.” Rosey seated at his writing desk, chastising Bauer as he caught his breath.

“I could say the same of you.” Bauer bent double, hands on his knees, deep breaths. 

“This is the dream, then,” gesturing to Bauer’s sketchbook, the dream, not Rosey’s or Bauer’s, and of course that was as it should be, Bauer felt the ‘yes’ and the fit of it.

“And yet you are still sitting.” Bauer moving to the easel, selecting brushes and paints – Rosey’s discreet movement in the corner of his eye and he whipped around, two brushes clutched in his right hand. “You just hid something.” Rosey’s guilty glance at the book on his desk, not his sketchbook and Bauer saw the pen. “You’ve been writing.” Fear in his voice, Bauer more surprised at that than Rosey and his hand shook a little.

“Last night, actually,” Rosey’s mea culpa dip of his head, “it’s not finished, but you can see it.”

“No.” The brushes replaced before Bauer dropped them. “You mustn’t show me it.” Rosey had already picked up the book, still held it out, useless gesture and his arms suspended, partway to offering the book to Bauer. “It’s not – “

“It’s for you.”

“Precisely.” Bauer’s half step back as if the book might fly at him. “It’s yours, it’s not ours.” The light through the window seeming to dim, early morning clouds and the colours bleeding from the room, hollow grey at the edges. The idea that a thought could exist for Rosey and not for him, the fear of Rosey knowing something and choosing to keep it from him suddenly a tangible thing, clutching at his throat. “You must never let me see it.” 

The book replaced carefully on Rosey’s writing desk, his own sketchbook retrieved from where he had dropped it and Rosey inspecting his work without a sound, ignoring or understanding Bauer’s frantic notes and scribbles – Rosey at his side, mixing colours, they would start on this dream straight away, leave the work of the previous evening. Paint over the marks on the canvas, he worked quickly until he found himself short of breath and only when he slowed did Rosey join him. No words exchanged as they painted, referring to Bauer’s sketch, slipping around each other, under Rosey’s arm, Rosey reaching around him, moving from one corner to the opposite automatically. No break for food – into the afternoon and Bauer’s shirt clinging uncomfortably to his back. The colours pale, muted, hinting and whispering, promises in Bauer’s ear. Something pure.

Finally Bauer too exhausted to continue, his hand trembling as he clutched the paintbrush and Rosey took it from him, gently, washed it. Directed Bauer to a chair, brought him a plate of something he should have recognised – Bauer ate without tasting. “How unreasonable of you to skip breakfast when I need you to paint,” Rosey’s whisper in his ear. “That ridiculous room of yours. That poor excuse for a bed,” and the empty plate whisked away, Bauer pulled to his feet and steered to Rosey’s bed, paint-smeared shirt stripped off and his hair spilling across the pillow, sheets drawn up to his shoulders though it was hardly cold. Faint noises as Rosey disappeared, clearing away their paints and brushes, Bauer letting his eyes close to focus on the sounds from the next room. Endless minutes before the mattress dipped, Rosey’s face on the other pillow and Bauer could sleep then, feeling the ‘yes’ and the fit of it all.


	6. Grey at the edges

Bauer’s taste for green drinks seemed to amuse Rosey; slumped in his seat, right hand tracing curious shapes in the air as Rosey guessed the colours he was thinking. Sweet liquorice taste on his tongue, they couldn’t afford to indulge often so each drink was savoured, each moment of wide-eyed delirium explored to its fullest. Late evening light and lamps lit – warm orange halos that seemed to pulse in time with Bauer’s breath, he reached out to grasp the light and Rosey caught his hand, soft whisper in his ear, “You’ll burn,” and Rosey’s hand on his seemed hotter still. 

“That’s where it is,” Bauer tried to explain, the pictures in his head refusing to stay still long enough to be pinned down with words. “The purest thought.”

“The other colours.” Rosey released his hand to pick up his own glass, careful sip, Bauer could almost taste it himself as Rosey swallowed. He sprawled further down in his seat, left shoulder bumping up against Rosey’s right, his head falling back. Further down the table, Aragon talked heatedly with Eluard; Bauer found himself struggling to understand the words and gave up trying to translate, the hurried French sounded cunning, the words plotting against him. He turned back to Rosey, panic in his eyes. 

“The words are running away from me,” he hissed. Aragon’s voice seemed to come from the other side of the room, Eluard’s slow drone arriving late, lazy.

Rosey’s sympathetic smile, “Macht’s nichts,” and Bauer knew Rosey would keep his word when he said, “you can have mine.” The French as clear as the German when Rosey spoke, and Bauer felt reassured, secure in Rosey’s company. The two languages somehow the same, the German words softened when Rosey spoke so that Bauer could make the answers in French and German simultaneously. Heard two sets of words in tandem inside his own head, and an echo of something else hiding behind them, like Rosey drawing as easily as he wrote and creating something new as he painted his words into their art.

“We don’t need them,” he told Rosey, conspiratorial whisper, “we’ll learn the new language.”

“The pure one,” Rosey echoed, and they sipped their drinks.

Rosey and Bauer left the café before the others, affecting a serene stroll as the ground seemed to swell and dip beneath their feet. Side by side, shoulders grazing and Bauer thought about white light and the sound of red as it chittered and laughed, orange breathing promises into his ear. Right hand in his pocket, knuckles of his left brushing against Rosey’s right hand - Bauer knew there were blue paint stains on Rosey’s fingers – he felt dangerous.

First to Rosey’s door; they spent so many hours in Rosey’s studio that each step, each brick, was ingrained on the canvas in Bauer’s head. Pausing outside, and Bauer imagined he could hear the echo behind his words and Rosey’s, the other language, learning itself inside his mouth.

“You’re still wasting your money on rent for that awful room.” Rosey’s eyes on his as they stood, warm summer evening and just a hint of a breeze, Bauer wanted to untie his hair and feel it shifting against the skin at the back of his neck. “You should stop.”

“So it’s a question of money?” His rent was not extortionate – they earned enough that he no longer worried about how much longer he could stay in Paris. But he knew Rosey was just looking for a way in, building a door with words that Bauer felt were wasted.

“Every time you creep back to that room, I feel like you’re betraying me. Isn’t that ridiculous?” 

“Utterly.” Bauer flinching at Rosey’s words, ‘betray’ such an ugly sound, blue like a body trapped under ice. 

“All those mornings when I’ve had to wait for you to tell me what you’re thinking.”

“You’re more patient than I am.”

Rosey’s deep breath, Bauer waited for the words to appear.

“I should wake up and know immediately what kind of mood you’re in. It would make life so much easier if I could know what colours you had dreamed without having to read those scribbles you make. Your handwriting is atrocious.” 

Rosey’s words were perilous, they tasted like liquorice and at the edge of Bauer’s vision the colours bled to grey. The invitation hung in the air like icicles and Bauer wondered if his hand would burn if he reached out for Rosey’s. 

Up the narrow staircase, Rosey in front – Bauer watched the careful movements of his shoulders as he walked, his hands on the door handle, head bowed as if looking at Bauer would drive him away. Two pairs of shoes put away in the cupboard, two jackets on hangers. Bauer folded his shirt, laid it on the chair by the bed with his tie and socks. Waited for Rosey to choose his side of the bed before he slipped beneath the covers, flat on his back to make out the edges of the ceiling in the dim streetlamp’s stolen light. Heard his own breath, slow and soft, suddenly aware of his heartbeat steady and loud in his ears. He turned at the same time as Rosey, left hand slipping under the pillow, right palm flat on the sheets – Rosey’s face in shadow and he imagined how his face would look to Rosey, sharp angles softened and alien, would Rosey be scared of him then?

The words crept in without waiting for an invitation, German and French a forgotten echo at the edge of hearing, the grammar of colours, whispered reassurance that they were getting closer, that revelation was near, and punctuated with white as he slept at last.


	7. Deepest night black

More blending of colours, seamless sweep from orange sunset horizon to deepest night black, passing through red and indigo, and Bauer found himself looking more at the places where the shades bled together – studying the paintings on the easel in their studio, the autumn leaves that were already falling in the streets outside, September unusually chill and crisp. Change in the air, so heavy that at times Bauer could feel the pressure of it against his skin, could feel the vibration of the ground under his feet. He caught himself looking at the edges of clouds, glowing gold where the sunlight reflected; at the greying hair of old men in the street, at the reflections on the surface of the river.

Reflections in their art, water and mirrors in his dreams, one troubled night he dreamed of a staircase with each step three feet high and when he finally reached the top he found his reflection in a mirror so tall he couldn’t see the topmost edge of its huge gilt frame. Bauer woke breathless, something reflected in the mirror he couldn’t bear to look at and the jolt of fear still there when he opened his eyes, grey morning light a confusion and Rosey’s hand seeking his – held on until Bauer ‘s heartbeat slowed and he could see well enough to make out Rosey’s profile on the pillow beside his.

Breton requested one of their newer paintings, called it a distinctive new phase in their work and hung it in his study. Questions and musings on their work – who made the final decisions about colour and composition? Who made the initial suggestion about each new piece? “Do the images come mostly from Rosey’s imaginings, or Bauer’s?” Breton’s curious way of talking about them instead of to them, and how could Bauer explain to someone who wasn’t there? Explain that he simply knew when he woke up that Rosey had seen something behind his eyes that he wanted to paint? Or that Rosey could see in Bauer’s eyes the genesis of some new idea, some new way of blending blue into yellow as dawn broke?

And how to explain that Rosey and Bauer managed all this as easily as breathing – that they were in fact breathing the same air each moment of each day? That they spoke to each other more now that they inhabited the same space, sentences half-formed because only a word or two would let Rosey know what Bauer thought, and Bauer so at ease that all the thoughts that he saved up as he observed the world around him could come spilling out when he and Rosey were alone. Each new colour he’d seen could be described in the quiet of their studio – he could talk theory in the café, but the others would get lost if he talked about the sound of yellow or the way orange prickled under his skin. And at night, he could lay next to Rosey and see, on the horizon behind his eyes, the pure colours, the words were teaching themselves to him and to Rosey, tomb-stillness in the dark room.

“Does Bauer ever dream about Rosey?” Breton’s question in the café, Eluard had talked about dreaming more of his wife when he had seen less of her during the day and the group had seized the topic; Aragon dreamed of things he had not seen for years, Yoyotte dreamed what had been on his mind that same day. And Bauer unable to answer, could not meet Rosey’s eye, words in his head that made no sense. Rosey still and silent beside him – Breton’s pointed glance before turning away to speak to Aragon.

Undressing for bed, Rosey on his side of the room, “Breton misunderstands.” Rosey’s jacket on its hanger, adjusted and readjusted until it hung straight. “Perhaps they all do. Should we correct them?” Something in Rosey’s voice, hints just beyond Bauer’s understanding and it hurt not to know. 

The knot on Bauer’s tie proving stubborn, gave him a reason not to look at Rosey. Somehow certain that he ought to dream about Rosey – the last face he saw each night should surely follow him into his dreams, and yet he had never seen Rosey there – why did that matter so much?

Rosey, by the window – face in shadow, hint of moonlight through the thin drapes behind him, and Bauer knew that if he were to dream of Rosey, he’d look just as he did at that moment – “I don’t need to dream of you.” His voice soft but certain, knowing Bauer needed this reassurance. “I know that you see everything I see.” 

Not another word about it until Bauer had slipped into the bed beside him. “Breton thinks we-“

“Are too close,” Rosey finished. His choice of words perhaps more delicate than anything Bauer would have suggested. His hand on Bauer’s – they lay side by side, two pairs of eyes studying the ceiling. “He sees things that aren’t there.”

“Or perhaps things he wants to see?” 

Rosey snickered at his suggestion. “He would call it a perversion.” His hand tightened around Bauer’s, briefly. “No. He’s wrong. We are far closer than that.”


	8. Prussian blue

Gala. In the café, at the galleries, in the words and the pictures of lés Surrèalistes, and Bauer almost pitied Eluard’s silent acceptance. Sharp enough that she kept up with their discussions, had her own opinions of everyone else’s work and Breton all the more annoyed by her constant presence. Muse to the writers and painters alike, by default or by design Bauer could not say – just there, expected if not accepted. 

Insinuations even in her casual glances, silent promises in the way she moved – Bauer and Rosey had of course heard the rumours about her and Max Ernst, and wondered who else she made those promises to.

“Is that marriage?” Bauer’s question, late afternoon in the café – Gala and Ernst in the far corner, hushed voices, while Eluard and Aragon attempted conversation in between drinks. The two of them sitting with Breton and Yoyotte; the talk all afternoon had been relationships. Breton on the differences between marriage and friendship, which was necessary and which was preferable? Why they were both inadequate, and why men needed both nevertheless. 

Breton’s glance at Gala, pursed lips and a long draw on his pipe; “It is one example only. Bauer must remember that what satisfies one individual, does not satisfy every individual. No matter how much it tries”

“And what satisfies Breton?” Rosey’s arched eyebrow as he posed the question. Bauer hid a smile.

Long stretch of silence as Breton studied the two of them, his face deliberately blank. “The pursuit of something better.”

Bauer turning to Rosey, understanding. Empathising, and Bauer felt bad that Breton pursued it in entirely the wrong way.

“Only the pursuit?” Bauer caught Breton’s eye. “What about-“

“-actually finding it?” Rosey finishing, and no mistaking Breton’s surprise at their posing the question together. 

“Breton rather suspects that actually achieving such a goal might perhaps be something of an anti-climax. Which is why the pursuit is to be savoured.” Stem of his pipe tapped against his teeth. “Still, pursue it we must.”

Deeper into their drinks, the café grew quieter and Breton moved on to speak with Aragon. Yoyotte with his notebook, curious glances at Bauer and Rosey, at Gala.

“What colour would you paint her, Bauer?” His eager expression – Bauer found it amusing and tiresome in equal measures. “Red, no doubt.”

“Brown,” he corrected – Yoyotte puzzled, pen stuttering above the page like the words he scribbled were choking him. “Rich and precise. Blended with orange, I think.” Rosey sniggered.

“What does that mean?”

“Only that the colours have elected not to speak to you, Pier.” Bauer’s glass quickly drained – the two of them left Yoyotte to furrow his brow and turn the page in his notebook.

“Would you paint her?” Rosey’s careful question as they entered the studio – lamps lit, Rosey did not want to sleep yet.

“It seems to be the fashion now.” His voice carefully casual – something in Rosey’s tone that he didn’t like the sound of. “She has posed for the others, either in reality or in their sordid little imaginings. Even Aragon has tried to capture her, I believe.”

“So we too must take our turn?” His jacket slung on the back of a chair, Rosey rolled up his shirt sleeves; collected his sketchbook and pencils and instructed Bauer to sit by the lamp he had just lit.

“Have you ever dreamt of anything like Gala?” Bauer removed his own jacket.

“Untie your hair.” Rosey finding a fresh page in his book. “Something about her. A movement, perhaps – I feel I’ve dreamed of the thing she tries to be.” Bauer had not moved; Rosey’s irritated sigh, crossing the room and removing the thin black tie from Bauer’s hair, arranging it just so. “Turn a little more toward the door.” Small satisfied sound, then Rosey stepped out of his line of view – Bauer heard him sit down again and pick up his pencil.

“The light will hurt your eyes, I fear. You find her unappealing?”

“She presents an appealing image.” Shush of pencil across the paper, long flowing strokes; Bauer tried to construct Rosey’s sketch in his mind. “The light is important. I want to see how it alters the colour of your hair. And if it alters the colour of my work.” A pause, Bauer tried to hold still. “The problem is that she presents so many other images at the same time. The effort is tiring even for the spectator – I wonder how she manages all that and still has time for her husband.”

“For both of them.” Bauer grinned.

“Keep still.” Rosey did not rush; after a while the pencil was discarded and Bauer heard him collecting paints. He felt drowsy but in no hurry to retire. Lamp light and fascinating shadows on the wall, the colours all the more remarkable at this time, why hadn’t he noticed that before? All their work born in morning sunlight, raised in the glare of afternoon – had they ever painted at night before?

An unexpected yawn, Rosey did not complain so Bauer turned to find him studying the page, evidently finished – the paintbrushes already cleaned.

“The lamplight is more suited to you,” Rosey explained. Bauer thought of his old room, of Rosey gilded in the afternoon sun, what did it make him if he was better suited to this artificial light? “Would you think me too fanciful if I suggested moonlight?” The sketchbook laid too casually on the table as Rosey cleared away his paints; Bauer stood and moved to inspect it. In the lamplight, Rosey had turned the deep black of his hair to mahogany, but the angles of his face remained true. Not quite in profile, he’d turned so far that Rosey had been unable to draw his eyes, but the recognisable sharpness of his cheeks and forehead, barest hint of eyelashes – Bauer, exactly as he was. I don’t need to dream of you.

“In the moonlight, your hair would be blue.” Rosey behind him, shoulder barely brushing Bauer’s shoulder. And there, at the bottom of the page, patches of colour – a colour test, but Bauer knew better, knew there was no need for Rosey to practise his precise mix of Prussian blue, of indigo and of violet.

Bauer’s deep breath, he knew Rosey’s eyes would be closed, that Rosey’s hands would be shaking. Felt it reflected in his own hands as he carefully worked at the knot in his tie, as he pulled off both his shoes. Clothes carefully put away. The lamp light in the studio too treacherous somehow, so they left it in darkness, finding their way to the bed by instinct alone.

The sheets pulled back, Bauer on the left side and suddenly aware of every dip and bulge of the mattress; his left hand under the pillow, right palm flat on the sheets between them. Rosey’s hand next to his, barest brush of fingers and Bauer measured the spaces between his heartbeats. He felt dangerous. Rosey’s shallow breaths, palest yellow from the streetlamp outside, Bauer wondered which of them was making the promise. His hand over Rosey’s – tiniest smears of blue on one finger, smudging on to Bauer’s hand, on to the sheets. Rosey’s face in shadow so Bauer had to guess his mouth, hands trapped between them and finally and yes, fragile completion and Bauer too afraid to smile so Rosey did it for him – he actually heard Rosey’s smile in the darkness, felt it down the length of Rosey’s body as Bauer pressed close, and then, then - Rosey’s hands, shy questions under the sheets and lip upon lip and linked breathing, streetlight and moonlight pulling back and Prussian blue behind Bauer’s eyes, indigo under his hands and pulling him closer, nothing but them, them alone and even as he remembered the words Bauer knew they had lied – that this was more real than anything captured on canvas or trapped with ink – the two of them, trembling in each other’s arms and legs as if they alone could take the image of the embrace and make it real.


	9. Sickly yellow, watery blue

Something shared, that was the key. To watch the sun reflecting off of the rippling waves of the river and know that Rosey was watching too; to breathe the crisp autumn air and know that Rosey felt the same suggestion of winter just weeks away; to attend Breton’s meetings and know that, whatever they discussed, there would be someone who would agree with him emphatically on every point – all that, Bauer craved and was grateful for, hording the moments in his memory. Rosey’s hand in his at every opportunity, always partly for show but Bauer almost needed the physical connection, “As if my mind could reach beyond the limits of my own body,” he’d whispered to Rosey one evening at dusk – they were painting more and more often in the dim evening light; he had stopped for a moment, uncertain, and placed one paint-smudged hand on Rosey’s back to remind himself of what was missing from the picture. The answer suddenly there, had been there all along, in Rosey’s mind – Bauer wondered why he had lost it, thankful that Rosey had been able to return it to him.

The colours seemed to glow lately; everything had its own light. Even in the small hours when they resisted sleep – Bauer thought he might discover where the colours all came from, might be able to reach inside the dresser or the curtains or Rosey’s hair and pull out a handful of colour, finding the shades that couldn’t be bought in any artists’ supply store. 

In their bed, the covers pulled right up to block out everything that wasn’t RoseyandBauer – gasps and warm skin and breathy laughter, lip upon lip like the most perfect thing Bauer had ever known, Rosey’s fingers in his hair and Bauer aching inside, miserable that the colours inside his head could never be captured on canvas. Each morning a struggle to leave the bed, unbearable to be parted from Rosey sometimes, as if not feeling Rosey’s skin against his meant that he lost a part of his own mind. 

 

*****

Breton’s army, the devoted footsoldiers of his Surrealist Revolution – the few who remained true, at least (Max Ernst rarely seen, Magritte absent for months and Breton sullen, bitter) seeking out new blood. Galleries, theatres, films, and suddenly a sense of anticipation – new names whispered in the café.

Un Chien Andalou. Eluard told them about it first – he did not accompany them, Breton and Aragon and Yoyotte and Rosey and Bauer, occupying the entire front row of chairs in the tiny room where the film was shown. Bauer, crowded by strangers behind him, low buzz of voices, Like nothing you’ve ever seen, and Bauer chuckled at their naïveté, Spaniards, you know, ahead of anything our own artists are producing. Turning to look at Rosey – a challenge they had no doubts about accepting.

Twenty minutes later and the five of them motionless in their seats, mouths agape. Bauer gripping Rosey’s hand so tightly it hurt. The images still danced behind his eyes, how he wished he could add colour to the film itself; sickly yellows, ugly browns, pale watery blues, the hollow grey of the images was frightening enough but Bauer felt saddened that it had come so close to greatness. His skin crawled, something festering, Rosey agitated beside him and Bauer enjoyed it, astounded that someone else could provoke such a violent reaction.

Brief conversation with Buñuel, Bauer sensed the director’s disappointment at their compliments, Buñuel’s disdain for them, mere painters, as he edged past them to get to Breton. They noticed Dali, but it was nothing more than that – strange little man hovering at the back of the room, eyes on Breton. They turned instead to Aragon; Rosey smiled at his nauseated look. Out in the corridor, half-formed sentences and vague gestures, they couldn’t express anything other than their amazement, the thrill of something truly innovative. Yoyotte chewing his pencil, staring at a blank page, and Bauer knew that they all felt it - the white at the edge of their vision.

*****

Days of discussions, of Breton interrogating them one by one (RoseyandBauer were one in everyone’s mind now). What did they think of Dali? Could the group embrace this new medium? What could they learn from Dali’s film? What were their reactions to his apparent coprophiliac tendencies? (Breton’s worry over that painting kept coming up in discussion.) 

In the studio, less to be said now as they worked – just an unspoken sense of pressure. Suddenly the standards were raised, the challenge set by moving images up against those captured by paint on canvas, Bauer had never been more grateful for colour – film could only hazard a guess at the promise of poppy-red, the whisper of pale yellow, the joie de vivre of green – hollow grey film could never live up to Bauer’s imaginings.

Still, Breton invited Dali in, and Bauer and Rosey were as entranced as any of them by the strange little Spaniard who spoke in surrealism, not just about it. Bauer wondered if he ought to be jealous, but Dali was like a tidal wave which had swept them all up – it would have been futile to struggle.

Dali with his faltering French, and Bauer knew his frustration, the lack of correlation between the images in his head and the words he was capable of producing from his mouth. Art as expression, as communication – they took those pictures and made them real, as real as possible with paints at least – words were just the pins that held down the butterfly, so much more wondrous when it was capable of moving its wings.

Frustration seemed prevalent lately – days of watching Rosey studying their paintings, hours passed in the studio with very little accomplished. Bauer’s own brushes immobile as long as Rosey stood motionless and the images were there in his head, they had to be there for Rosey too but Rosey could not paint them – Bauer noticed his eyes creeping constantly to the corners of the canvas. With his hand on Rosey’s shoulder, he felt the almost claustrophobic sense of limitation, felt the edges crowding them in, “We have to go further,” Rosey’s harsh whisper, hand reaching out blindly for Bauer’s – Bauer found him, held on until Rosey’s breathing slowed to normal.

There were shapes behind his eyes, moving out beyond the reaches of the canvas, tendrils, the meaning moving beyond the original idea – he saw himself as if through Rosey’s eyes, his own face in near-profile as Rosey had painted it all those months ago, and knew suddenly that canvas just wasn’t enough anymore.


	10. Clouds of violet and lilac

Memories, soft as eiderdown - Bauer wanted to wrap himself in reminiscences of his days with Rosey, curl time around the two of them so that they were always like this, wound around each other, seeing the world and himself through Rosey’s eyes. When Dali was all anyone talked about, when paintings would not sell, when Aragon talked incessantly about politics - Bauer’s eyes would catch Rosey’s, or his hand would brush against Rosey’s hand and there, there - his head filled with swirling clouds of violet and lilac, memories of warm skin covering his.

Early mornings, sunlight struggling weakly through the drapes of their bedroom and the white bed sheets glowing like a gilded frame around the two of them. Rosey’s long arms wrapped around his torso, slow and lazy and teasing when there was work to be done but staying in bed felt so much more delicious. Frantic in the afternoons, when painting side by side had them sweating from the effort, twisting around each other’s arms to reach the corners of the canvas, paint-smeared skin and colours everywhere, Bauer’s energy roused by reds and oranges and they couldn’t work any more until Bauer had been able to feel Rosey pressed against him. Or soft and dangerous in the night, vivid green drinks making everything louder and closer so that Bauer felt the very edges of the world, Rosey whispering in his ear as they held each other, words in French and German, Bauer saw the shades beneath the words, in the space behind both their eyes where only Rosey could hear him.

Everything suddenly so frenzied, Dali had swept the Surrealists up in a whirlwind of productivity and provocation - all of Paris and beyond blazing in the light of surrealism. Bauer and Rosey, an unexpected sense of status, integral part of Breton’s elite few and the two of them testing the limits of propriety - Breton with his probing questions and stern glances, unable to disapprove openly when they explained their ideas about the surrealisation of the human body, “one idea from two minds, one mind extending beyond the reach of one body,” they made such a show of it that most people believed it was nothing more than a show. Shoulders brushing as they walked outside, hands pressed together as they talked in tandem in Breton’s meetings, private conversations without words and the secret thrill of taking their own little world wherever they went.

And moving, not just beyond their own minds but beyond the canvas; experiments with clay before looking at found objects, at taking the real world and turning it into something else. Fascination with tendrils, limbs, tentacles, the idea of reaching out, of searching. They remembered Breton’s suggestion that the search was more satisfying than the achievement itself, tried to capture that sense of longing - Bauer felt it desperately at times, galleries and parties where people swarmed like ants, trying to speak to him by himself or dragging Rosey off to ask him about their work, as if Rosey could tell them anything that Bauer couldn’t. Or when Gala would tear herself away from Dali, her latest obsession, to try to worm her way between the two of them, insinuations and promises that irritated him as much as they excited him.

The group seemed turbulent lately, tempers stretched and ideas debated with new vigour, what else could surrealism achieve? Where were they all being taken? Who had the strength and perseverance to see out the journey? Eluard left, much missed by Breton at first who continued to fret over Gala’s influence in spite of his growing admiration of Dali. 

“Would you paint her?” Rosey’s question, not the first time he had asked it; they were cleaning brushes, wiping up paint spills, no question as to who the ‘her’ referred to. Bauer did not pause in his task.

“Perhaps ten years ago. All those sharp edges - she’s like a breathing cubist work.” Bauer held up a brush to the weak evening light coming through the window, inspecting its bristles. “I would paint her grey, like a shark. I would paint the teeth she fails so completely to hide.”

Rosey wiped his hands on a stained rag. Sideways glance at Bauer, half teasing, half worried; Bauer sensed the danger.

“And after you had painted her?”

“You think I could be interested in her as anything other than a subject?” Bauer finished his task, replaced the last brush. Crossed the room to stand by the window, eyes on Rosey.

“She has proven time and again that she is capable of doing more for an artist than simply sitting for a portrait.”

“And what has she to show for it?”

“Besides her reputation and a knack for getting what she wants, one way or another?” Rosey’s eyes were downcast, so Bauer had to listen for the meaning underneath his words. He turned to pull the drapes closed; the room softened, dark and still, and he stood before Rosey.

“You’ll never be rid of me.” Arms winding around Rosey, tight tentacle hold, his lips on Rosey’s throat. “Or are you worried that I’ll lose you to her?” Working his way down Rosey’s neck, smelling the residue of paint and sweat, feeling Rosey’s tension under his hands. “Would you write about her? Would you make her real with your words?” Rosey’s shirt carefully peeled open, Bauer rubbing and soothing with his hands, stilling him like a horse about to bolt. “You’ve thought about it,” and Bauer only able to say the words out loud because he had too, had seen flashes of her body between theirs before hurriedly pushing them away, keeping only the guilt to remind him of how dangerous those thoughts could be.

“I don’t - “

“ - Need her?” Bauer risked a smile, felt it answered just faintly in Rosey’s body. “Of course we don’t.” The shirt slid down over Rosey’s broad shoulders; Bauer’s arms loose around Rosey’s middle as he slipped around behind him, lips and tongue over Rosey’s shoulder blades. “But we’ve thought about it nevertheless. Hands to reach where I can’t. New skin. Another mouth while mine is busy.” Busy sliding kisses down Rosey’s spine, white shirt dropped, careless. “You’ve thought about it.” Rosey’s long, ragged exhalation, and Bauer smiled between kisses. “But it - “

“ - can’t be better than this. Never - “

“ Never more than this,” and back around to find Rosey’s lips, and Rosey’s hands sliding under his shirt and at last skin on skin, Bauer almost sagged with the relief, falling into Rosey, and deft fingers and greedy mouths, whispers and moans in the darkened room and stumbling backwards, Rosey guiding them half-blind to the bedroom. Clothes and shoes discarded along the way, the bedroom curtains still open and Bauer dimly aware of the streetlamp’s effect on Rosey’s face, deep shadows and ethereal glow; Bauer tracing the edges of each shadow with one finger, imagining he could feel the place where dark and light blended together. And Rosey, whispering, mouth over Bauer’s skin and hints of the words, “Immer” and “always” the word was white, the word was the beginning and end of everything Bauer had imagined, Rosey and Bauer, für immer, urging towards the place where white enveloped everything, Bauer felt it building inside himself and beyond himself, Rosey lost beyond words and the world was white behind Bauer’s eyes.


	11. The colour of clouds

Unrest - it crept in like something from the shadows, slinking, greasy. Soiled everything and everyone. Aragon had threatened repeatedly to end his association with lès Surréalistes, said Breton was not concerned enough with politics, that surrealism was a tool that was being left to rust, that the fascists were a growing threat they could not afford to ignore. Breton’s argument: everything was political, surrealism would bring France to a new understanding that would take men beyond the need for anything so dogmatic as fascism or communism or any other ism Aragon could name; “It will liberate man from the shackles of the system which has allowed the massacre in the trenches.” And Dali dancing through the middle of it all entirely unconcerned - his vision of a surreal world becoming less and less distinguishable from the real world.

In the middle of it all, Bauer and Rosey, walking the line between politics and art. Politicised intrinsically, Aragon’s warnings about the fascists forcing on them a need for secrecy that Bauer did not like - just as the canvas had become a cage for their art, forcing them to make branches (literally) in the realms of sculpture, so their studio was becoming a cage for his life with Rosey - he had taken to pacing the floor as they worked, sometimes dropping his work to pounce on Bauer, to claw and bite at his skin until Rosey howled with pleasure, sometimes sulking in the corner while Rosey worked and talked, assembling pieces guided by the occasional grunt of acceptance or irritation from Bauer.

In Breton’s meetings they took delight in showing off both their connection and their brazenness, casual remarks carefully crafted to shock, effortlessly making sentences together until the others forgot who was speaking.

And the group fragmenting, were they with Aragon and his passion, were they for purity like Breton, or were they with Dali in his rise to fame? Dali who was now married to Gala, Eluard barely even a memory, and Dali often absent from their meetings as he worked at surrealising Paris.

 

“Dali. The light -“

“ - never settles on him. It’s like I -”

“ - can’t look at him for more than a second before I have to look away - his edges -“

“ - are always shifting.” Rosey and Bauer’s thoughts as they sat in Breton’s study, on the couch opposite Breton’s desk. Breton arched an eyebrow in curiosity. 

“Dali redefines himself?” he asked them. From his seat by the window, Aragon snorted.

“Dali is - “

“ - indefinable.” 

Breton nodded. 

“You mean he does not make sense.” Aragon looked out of the window, neither inviting or expecting a response.

“As it should be,” Breton explained.

*****

 

Rosey’s fingers threaded in his hair, untied and unkempt - his arm heavy over Rosey’s chest as they lay in bed, Paris wide awake and busy outside the window but Bauer chose to ignore it. His eyes closed, lazy, focused on the slow stroke of Rosey’s fingertips on his scalp, his neck, his shoulder. Awake over an hour now but neither had spoken, they’d barely moved and Bauer would have to get up soon to piss but he couldn’t bring himself to stir, not now, not yet. 

Behind his eyes, golden-rose and violet took on new textures, warm like velvet, like the almost-invisible hairs on Rosey’s upper-arms. Textures more and more a feature of their art lately; contrast of wood and metal, ceramics and fabric, Bauer found natural colours both fascinating and frustrating. He imagined the roughness of unfinished wood-grain painted the colour of bluebells, shades of innocence with the feel of something unpleasant underneath. 

Palm flat, fingers splayed, he slid his hand up to the side of Rosey’s throat, up to his jaw, feeling faint tension and listening for Rosey’s tired sigh.

“Tell me,” he whispered, eyes still closed, feeling Rosey’s irritation and wondering at its cause so early in the day. Twisted silence for a moment had Bauer convinced he was the reason - apologetic kiss at the base of Rosey’s throat, eyes still closed.

“We’re not good enough.” 

Sick threatening seconds passed; Bauer almost convinced that Rosey meant him, meant he wasn’t good enough. Thought about all the evenings he’d sulked in the studio, muttering about propriety and fascists and why being outside in public was just a show, why did everything real have to be kept hidden? Strange, too, the way doubt only ever crept in when they were hidden, how outside they were RoseyandBauer, the human mind surrealised - did they ever even speak to each other outside of their room?

Then Rosey’s fingers, gentle sweep over his back and Bauer immediately calmed.

“Dali. Everything’s so much more difficult now.” 

“Everyone expects more.” His head turned to the side, cheek against Rosey’s chest so that his lips brushed faintly over skin as he spoke.

“Everyone expects the worst. I don’t know if I want to give it.”

Bauer thought of Dali’s deranged, disturbing visions, of the sickly muted colours he painted with; felt Rosey tense for a moment and tried to turn his mind back to their own work, concentrated on the colour of clouds until Rosey relaxed. He turned, chin on Rosey’s chest, looking up - Rosey nothing but nose and chin - Bauer grinned, lascivious, “There’s pleasure in depravity too,” eyebrows raised to make it a question. Rosey worried at his lower lip; Bauer couldn’t tell if his eyes were open or closed.

“Are we not depraved enough?” Faint sound of a smile in his voice, deliberate, to stop Bauer sulking. “I thought you wanted something pure.”

“We are pure,” and his hand drifting down, down, over Rosey’s hip, “it’s art that’s lacking. The physical world isn’t nearly as pliable as the mind.” He yawned - too early for this, he thought.

“Perhaps - “ Rosey’s yawn, and Bauer’s wide grin, “perhaps the physical world isn’t for us.” 

“So we should stay here? Always? And be pure?” He bit his lower lip. Rosey managed to lift his head; Bauer finally saw that his eyes had been open all along. In Rosey’s eyes, Bauer caught a glimpse of the white silence that still haunted the edges of his dreams, always tantalisingly out of reach.

“Maybe a little depravity now and then,” and a smile, wolfish, and Bauer caught it, returned it, and kissed him.


	12. -blank-

In gallery catalogues and in the press, they were sculptors now, apparently, Rosey and Bauer (always Rosey and Bauer, never Bauer and Rosey, and sometimes Bauer read the names without seeing the spaces between the words). Found objects and those of their own creation, reaching arms questing, probing limbs - sometimes they were low, sneaking, squat things that seemed to lunge at their spectators‘ feet, other times they were suspended above their viewers’ heads, as if the ground was too base, too common for superior ideas such as theirs.

Work was challenging; Bauer felt the thrill of no longer being bound by the four edges of a canvas, but the new restriction of prescriptive colours, chosen by Nature or by men with little in the way of imagination. Was this how Rosey had felt in his first forays into visual art? Seeing the world only in shades of indigo ink and being baffled by Bauer’s talk of whispering yellows and deceitful reds?

At least here they were both equals, and Bauer wondered if this was where they would find their purity, in the place where neither was the teacher or the novice.

The talk now was no longer of capturing the surreal world of the mind, but the surreal objectification of the physical world. Surreal objects, Dali called them, the unexpected hiding in the most obvious places. The atmosphere in the streets of Paris grew noticeably tense, Aragon talking heatedly about fascists and communists, Breton clinging to his ideal of revolutionising thought, of freeing France from the shackles of logic, and surrealism was increasingly lauded and loathed by all the wrong people.

And Bauer, feeling constantly the sensation of standing at the edge of something, of feeling the void beneath his feet but not daring himself to open his eyes and look directly into it.

The surreal world was there, close enough that he could smell it, hear it whispering at the edge of his waking hours now, wrapping itself around the physical world - crawling into its corners to hide and bide its time, waiting for Rosey and Bauer to finally grasp one corner of its shimmering white fabric and drag it out into the sunlight. He felt the same about the time spent with Rosey, too many days hiding from the world in their room, too many days of putting on shows, of pretending everything was about Art and performance, of everyone assuming that the link between them ended when the exhibitions did. Nights spent desperate and furious, never as close to Rosey as he wanted to be, clawing at Rosey’s skin like he needed to be inside him – Rosey wrapped around him wasn’t enough anymore. Colours swirled and churned behind his eyes, things, words, fleeting visions whispering and biting at his consciousness and every day the fizzing, burning, scratching under his skin, things he couldn’t explain or even paint, hated the not knowing and wanted the danger all the more.

Everything was a risk – art, love, talk, everything Bauer did carried the frisson of danger and need. Everything was so much more, and no doubt in anyone’s mind that it was Dali’s doing, Dali and Gala, suddenly everything was risk and competition and currency and Rosey and Bauer had to compete, even though they played for different stakes. Offers of money, if that was what they wanted, offers of love and sex, which neither of them needed, offers of something pure if only Bauer could finally reach out and grasp it. And the threat out on the streets, suddenly Aragon’s frantic whispers carrying much more weight than any of them would have liked, and more meetings and more worry and more of Breton agitated and snappish and more, more.

Until Breton reached breaking point. Breton, losing his support from Aragon, even from Yoyotte. And Rosey and Bauer pulled; towards their leader, towards Dali, the strain showing. Conflict in their art, images and pieces at odds with themselves, a startling lack of symmetry that Bauer knew they were both aware of even if they never commented on it to each other. Because they still created, still dreamed side by side, still seemed to function, RoseyandBauer as always. But always now that sickly yellow disappointment, something missing and no one to blame but themselves.

Breton’s study, and side by side on Breton’s couch with that feeling of now, everything coming to a head somehow in this one meeting, this trial and Breton calmly officious about the whole thing, farce that it was, that it descended further into when Dali appaeared. Twelve sweaters, thermometer, and on his knees to swear his loyalty to Surrealism, and Bauer knew it was over. Knew that Dali had found it, had found that pure white place that he had only glimpsed at the edge of dreams, had been there all along, laughing at them. And what was the point anymore? Why bother with shows and facades if Dali had beaten them? Dali was Surrealism, and they could deny him or follow him, but they could never best him.

And after the trial, outside Breton’s study. Rosey standing next to him – Bauer felt lost. What had it all been for? Without Breton, without Dali; grey behind his eyes, so hollow and empty that he couldn’t even see Rosey, couldn’t see what Rosey saw. Sick empty need in the pit of his stomach, hands jammed into the pockets of his jacket to keep them from shaking. Bauer knew only that Rosey’s gaze was focused on him, questioning, scared. 

When he could bear to look at Rosey, when Yoyotte had made clear his new allegiance to Dali and sauntered off to find his new mentor, when Rosey’s eyes found his; sudden spark of something new, Bauer startled to find it was anger, or something like it. A thought in Rosey’s head, a feeling in his gut that did not match Bauer’s. A note, at the edge of hearing, out of key. A grey that wasn’t grey but an absence of meaning. Rosey’s stern face, a warning, that’s not the way and Bauer torn, desperate to join Dali in that shining place, longing for what Dali had owned all along and taunted him with so cleverly. He had felt Rosey’s confusion earlier, seen that Rosey agreed with Dali, that Rosey was overcome with pity for Breton, and Bauer wished until it hurt that he could lead Rosey there, that Rosey would be willingly led, but Rosey, harsh words and dejected eyes, Rosey daring him to leave. And Bauer, spark of anger flaring, mirroring Rosey in the worst possible way, his own words stinging until there was no option but to put space between them.

So Rosey retreating, disappearing up the stairs and Bauer felt his anger burn white and blue, saw it at the edge of his vision – to be replaced by grey, hollow and stark and drained and alone. Only grey without Rosey, only empty and silent and the thoughts that had taken root just seconds ago withered and died, Bauer’s own voice echoing inside his own head, Why don’t you come up with something? His own stupid arrogance, his own need for more, his, his, not theirs, not RoseyandBauer, not anything.

Up the stairs, Rosey’s retreating form already too far away and Bauer running after him – too scared to call out, for fear of actually hearing Rosey’s rejection. Walking behind him, Rosey must have been aware of his presence but did not, would not acknowledge him.

In the street, two paces behind Rosey; Bauer knew they were attracting attention and for once it shamed him. Silent walk back to their studio, Bauer all the while planning what he might say. A dozen different apologies, a dozen more insults to hurl at Rosey for being so distant and suddenly beyond his reach.

But inside – Rosey crossed the room to the window, Bauer heard his deep sigh before finally Rosey turned to look at him. 

Words formed themselves on Bauer’s tongue, I can’t… It’s not… We have to… Sentences died unsaid; he could only hope that Rosey could see everything Bauer wanted to say from the pain which was surely etched on his face. Rosey watched him – Bauer saw his concentration, saw the flicker of hesitation and concern and reluctance, saw the ache and the betrayal, the disappointment and the fear, saw at last the understanding. And then Rosey, slipping off his jacket, rolling up his sleeves. Setting up the long-disused easel by the window to catch the last hour of daylight. 

Side by side in the sunset framed by the window, paint on canvas for the first time in over a year, the routine as familiar as breathing, as necessary as a heartbeat. Rosey mixing sickly yellow, small flashes of grey, muted greens and blues. Around and under and beside him, Bauer worked carefully with soft rose, palest yellow, blending carefully until the edges of the images blurred, slipped into each other, Rosey’s nightmares and Bauer’s regret, and the promise they each made as they worked.

In the light from the fading sun, and then in the lamplight, the small canvas was carefully and slowly filled with colour, hints and whispers taking shape until Bauer felt the deep ache in his arms, his fingers stiff from holding the brush. 

Paint-stained hands were wiped on rags, brushed cleaned and put away. The curtains drawn. Clothing folded carefully. 

Neither had spoken a word by the time they slipped into bed. Bauer’s eyes fixed on the ceiling, on the vague shapes hinted at in the darkness. When he finally felt warmed, when keeping his eyes open became a struggle, then Rosey’s hand found his.


	13. Reaching the horizon

A café, chairs out in the street – they sat in the sun like it was a holiday, like everything was wonderful. Bauer felt his skin warm and thought of Paris.

The south of France, he said it and it sounded like a vacation, as though they hadn’t run away, as though they weren’t fleeing the fascists. As though every meeting was still about the future of Surrealism and not about how to leave the country as they feared for their lives.

Every evening, back to his own lodgings; his tiny room, his single bed. Rosey across town, a few streets felt like miles away, and Bauer somehow making it through each day as though that didn’t matter. Sitting across the table from him, sometimes not seeing him for days, feeling as though something inside of him was rotting.

They made plans – America – planned to leave as soon as possible, as soon as they could without arousing suspicion. One by one, as soon as their paperwork could be arranged. So steadily their numbers dwindled, and every day Bauer felt the anxiety, churning deep in his gut, felt the approach of something ending, and every night he dreamed with grey at the edge of his vision.

By the door to his room, a bag – his few meagre belongings, an envelope of bank notes, one small wrapped canvas. Everything else sold or left behind, but when he had packed, Bauer had found himself unable to part with one in particular. The purple – the wrinkled bed-sheets, the empty room, and Bauer still blushed to think of it, even now. He carried the bag each time he left his lodgings, never comfortable if it was out of his sight.

And still their numbers dropped, some leaving for America, others simply gone. Bauer and Rosey spoke less and less to each other, did not dare spoil the time they could find together.

Some days he would sit with the bag on his lap, imagining the wrapped painting inside it, picturing the precise shades of purple, remembering the anticipation, reds and oranges and deep, deep blues – remembering the promise of his first meeting with Rosey. Remembered explaining his language of colours, the surprise and the yes and the _at last_ of finding someone who understood, who could communicate the same way. The completeness of it all, the sense of everything gradually fitting into place. 

And now all that was crumbling – the constant sensation of the ground dropping away from beneath his feet, of standing on the edge of something, vertigo madness that kept him awake at night. Instincts and urges he couldn’t quite name or understand; Bauer felt driven by a need to do something but could not say what that something was. He made guesses, changed his lodgings, avoided people, spent entire days in his room without ever seeing the sun. He had whispered conversations with Breton, then went days without speaking to him.

Rosey, he knew, felt pushed away, even if Bauer did not mean to push. Just the thought of Rosey in danger, though, and he couldn’t bring himself to speak to Rosey if there was any sort of risk involved – odd moments of ice-cold terror would freeze him in place, motionless and speechless, even in company.

Ever conscious of time and its limitations, he made resolutions in his head; he would apologise to Breton for questioning him, he would thank Aragon for the poem which brought him to Paris, he would tell Yoyotte what an insufferable fool Bauer thought he was. 

He never did, though. To do so would be to admit that time was running out, as though he could see his own death on the horizon, an ending where once there had been brilliant white possibility.

Only one resolution was ever seen through. He found Rosey one morning, in the bleak little room Rosey was renting. The bag he always carried had been slung over his shoulder; now he placed it carefully on Rosey’s table, opened it up and brought out his offering.

The canvas, wrapped in paint-stained cloth – he presented it to Rosey without a word. Rosey offered a questioning glance, a raised eyebrow, and waited for an explanation. 

Feeling his face flush, Bauer sought for a plausible reason.

“It was my first. After we met.” To add anything else would have been too final.

Rosey took it from his hands and placed it on the table, unopened. Then, as Bauer watched in confusion, he crossed the room to open a small trunk which had been serving as a nightstand. From it, he pulled a hardbound book, stuffed with loose leaves of paper; he rifled quickly through the pages to pull out one yellowed page, folded carefully into quarters. This, he brought back and offered to Bauer.

“You wouldn’t see it, before. Will you take it now?”

And Bauer understood, felt the impending fall, knew the loneliness that would soon enfold him. Still, he took the paper from Rosey’s trembling hand.

“I won’t read it yet,” Bauer told him, slipping the paper into the pocket of his jacket. “When we leave France. When we get to America. I’ll read it then.” He did not add that there was no need, that he remembered Rosey’s poem, could tell even now what Rosey had thought and felt when it had been written all those years ago.

Rosey picked up the wrapped canvas.

“When we meet in America. I’ll open it then.” And he placed it inside the trunk.

Bauer did not dare stay long; they risked so much even visiting like this. He steeled himself for one embrace, cursed himself when it led, inevitably, to one kiss, and whispered once more before he left, “When I see you next – when we’re across the sea. When we reach the horizon. I’ll read your poem then.”

He let himself out into the street, blinking with surprise at the brightness of the sunlight.

 

END


End file.
